Prepared To Do Anything
by mylia11
Summary: John Watson fell that day, and Sherlock is the one left behind. In an attempt to end his depression, he writes out what really happened that led up to this, and tries to move on without him. AU Reichenbach Fall. Johnlock, pre-slash
1. The Act

**Author's**** Note: The only reference I used (besides my mind and episode) was a well-written script by someone on livejournal. A link may be found on my profile. Thank you for reading.**

* * *

**Prologue**

Rain. Rain poured down on Baker Street that day. It had been gloomy and cloudy for days, and now it all was crashing down.

Sherlock Holmes listened to the rain. He lay there on his sofa, in his flat, listening to the rain. He had been wearing the same clothes for over a month. The only time he spoke was to silence anyone's fruitless effort to cheer him up. Because he knew- they all knew- that nothing would help him.

He had just lost a friend.

Molly had come by the day before. She came every week, to clean up the flat and make some meals for Sherlock. During these visits, she would normally talk about her week, or just uphold Sherlock's silence. But yesterday had been different. Yesterday, she told him that they had finished interviewing all the witnesses, went over the evidence, watched the video tapes, and compiled a report on what happened. She left a copy for him to look over, and had went about her routine.

During that time, he had examined every aspect of those files until he could come up with a logical sequence of events. She returned the file to Scotland Yard when she left, but, by that time, he didn't need it. He already knew what he had to do.

Suddenly, Sherlock got up, and did something he hadn't done in a while: He got the laptop and opened it.

The screen was the same as it was two weeks ago: open to Sherlock's website, viewing his last post. Only two words: In memorium.

He sighed. He didn't want to, but he had to. To move on, to cope, he had to. He opened a new post, and began to type.

"As many of you may have heard, about a month ago, two men were found dead at Bartholomew's Hospital. The sequence of events leading up to that event have remained unclear to this day. But all of that changes, as I will enlighten you all as to what really happened.

This is the story of how Jim Moriarty was defeated, and how he defeated me.

This is the story of how my best friend, John Watson, died."

* * *

**Chapter 1**

_Three Months Ago..._

"_Falls Of The Reichenbach_, Turner's masterpiece, thankfully recovered due to the prodigious talent of Mr. Sherlock Holmes," the gallery director cheered, as the patrons began to applaud Sherlock and John, who were standing next to the recovered piece. Neither Sherlock nor John could remember the director's name. John was polite enough not to ask again, and Sherlock just didn't bother. But that's how these two men were: complete opposites, and yet, best of friends. Partners in solving crime.

The director pulled a small package out of his pocket and handed it to Sherlock. "A small token of our gratitude," he announced.

Sherlock stared at it, then frowned in dismay. "Diamond cuff links. All my cuffs have buttons," he replied bluntly.

John sighed. He had been expecting this. "He means thank you," he told the director.

"Do I?" he said.

"Just do it," said John, a slight groan to his voice.

"Thank you," he said, in the most insincere tone he could manage. He started to walk away when John held him back.

"Hey." Sherlock sighed. He despised this part. John loathed it as well, but he knew they had to keep a good public image.

Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and allowed his photograph to be taken by numerous photographers.

_What idiotic title will come up this time_, he thought. '_Turner masterpiece uncovered by amateur?' Hm, _these_ people are the amateurs._

* * *

_Later..._

The two men stood uncomfortably outside their rescued client's house while the press surrounded them. John gave them his "professional smile", as Sherlock dubbed it, and in turn, Sherlock gave them all "The Look", as John humorously called it.

The banker was almost done giving his statement. "Now I'm back together with my family after my terrifying ordeal, and we have one person to thank for my deliverance – Sherlock Holmes."

The public watching the scene applauded. But before they could leave, the banker's young son handed Sherlock a small parcel. He received it, and briefly shook it. Turning to John, he said, "Tie pin. I don't wear ties." But before Sherlock could continue his rants, John shushed him, and they soon left.

During the car ride back to the flat, Sherlock spoke. "I hate bankers."

"One of your, er, _colleagues_ is a banker,"said John.

"Yes, and I hate detectives, yet Lestrade is my friend. I hate living with people and yet I tolerate living with you."

"Yes, but that's because I tolerate living with you. It's a two-way street."

"It really isn't."

"No, it really is."

It wasn't long before they began to laugh at their own petty arguments.

* * *

_Later..._

They arrived at a police press conference concerning the recent arrest of a famous convict, captured by Sherlock. Lestrade was giving a speech, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He was too busy glaring at his longtime critic, Doctor Anderson, and D.S. Sally Donovan.

John was listening intently and preparing to notify his partner when to graciously accept the department's gift.

"Peter Ricoletti," Lestrade was saying, "number one on Interpol's Most Wanted list since nineteen eighty-two. But we got him; and there's one person we have to thank for giving us the decisive leads, with all his customary diplomacy and tact!"

Sherlock falsely smiled at Greg, while John muttered, "Sarcasm."

"Yes," he nodded in response, mildly amused.

The media politely clapped as Lestrade walked up to them and handed Sherlock the wrapped present, grinning widely.

"We all chipped in," he said, as Sherlock unwrapped it, noticing that Donovan and Anderson were smiling suspiciously as well.

Finally, he pulls out his worst nightmare: a deerstalker hat, much like the one that had been worn by him as a way to hide his face on a moment of quick thinking, but had unfortunately ended up becoming his symbol.

"Oh," he said, using all his self-control not to strangle Lestrade.

The press, however, found it hilarious.

"Put the hat on!" some reporters shouted.

"Yeah, Sherlock, put it on," Greg agreed enthusiastically.

Sherlock took a deep breath and glowered at the reporters. John, noticing his vexation, quietly whispered to him, "Just get it over with."

Grimacing in chagrin, Sherlock shoved the wrapping paper aside and dropped the hat on his head.

The audience roared with approval, Donovan clapped her hands sarcastically, and Anderson grinned smugly. John sighed. _It's going to be a bad day_, he thought.

* * *

_Later..._

They returned to the flat, where Sherlock, after changing into his blue dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, began to furiously pace. He stomped and threw a newspaper towards John, who was lounging on the couch.

"Boffin," he shouted as John began to unfold the paper. "Boffin Sherlock Holmes."

John held in a chuckle. "Everyone gets _one_,"he said.

"One what?"

"Tabloid nickname: '_SuBo_', '_Nasty Nick_'. Shouldn't worry – I'll probably get one soon."

"Page 5, column 6, first sentence," the detective replied breathlessly. As his flat mate turned to the page, he stomped up to the gracious "gift" he had received earlier and punched it in anger.

"Why is it always the hat photograph?" he snarled. He had never hated an inanimate object with this much fury before!

John, having found the paragraph, read the sentence. "_Bachelor _John Watson." He raised an eyebrow.

"What sort of hat is it, anyway?" Sherlock asked.

The doctor ignored him, preoccupied with his own troubles. "Bachelor? What the hell are they implying?"

"Is it a cap?" Sherlock held it, twisting it back and forth to examine every nook and cranny. "Why has it got two fronts?"

"It's a deerstalker," John replied, reading more of the article. "'_Frequently seen in the company of Bachelor John Watson ..._'"

"You stalk a deer with a hat? What are you gonna do – throw it?"

"'_..._Confirmed_ Bachelor _John Watson!'"

"Some sort of a death frisbee?," Sherlock inquired, slightly interested.

John set the newspaper down and turned towards Sherlock. "Okay, this is too much. We need to be more careful."

"It's got flaps ... ear flaps. It's an ear hat, John!" he tossed the hat to John, who let it fall to the ground.

Then, he realized what he had said. "What do you mean, 'more careful'?" he inquired.

John sighed. "I mean this isn't a deerstalker now; it's a Sherlock Holmes hat. I mean that you're not exactly a private detective any more." He placed his thumb and index finger an inch away from each other. "You're this far from famous."

Sherlock scoffed. "It'll pass," he assured John. He slumped down in his couch and concentrated on John.

"It'd _better _pass. The press _will _turn, Sherlock. They always turn, and they'll turn on _you_," John warned his friend.

Sherlock lowered his hands, and looked curiously at John, realizing something. "It really bothers you."

"What?"

"What people say."

"Yes."

"About me? I don't understand. Why would it upset _you_?"

John opened his mouth, them promptly closed it. He gazed at Sherlock for a few moments, then turned away.

"Just try to keep a low profile," he murmured, grabbing the newspaper. "Find yourself a _little _case this week. Stay out of the news."

* * *

_Tower Of London 11:00_

It was a nice quiet day. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, the weather was nice, and there were plenty of people walking about, taking pictures and talking.

A particular man stood out. He wore jeans, a grey jacket, and a London cap. He seemed to be fiddling around with his phone, but, on closer inspection, he was actually taking photographs of the security staff rather than the sights. He then snapped a picture of the sign pointing to the famed Crown Jewels.

He lowered the phone from his face and smiled, like he knew a dirty little secret.

It was him. Jim Moriarty.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, all seemed tranquil. Sherlock was perched at his makeshift work space in the kitchen, gazing into a microscope, when his phone began to buzz in the living area.

John soon came, hair sopping wet and in his bathrobe. Drying his hair, he stated, "It's your phone."

"Keeps doing that," Sherlock murmured, completely uninterested.

With a long-suffering shake of his head, John entered the living room and reclined in the armchair, unfolding a newspaper. Behind him, he noticed a mannequin's body, attired in a classy suit, though it was hanging from a noose. "So, did you talk to him for a very long time?" John joked, referring to their first case, "A Study in Pink".

Sherlock glanced up from his research to the hanged dummy. "Oh. Henry Fishgard never committed suicide."

The consulting detective picked up a dusty old book from his desk and slammed it shut, allowing dust to fly everywhere. As he returned to his work, he commented, "Bow Street Runners- missed everything."

"Pressing case, is it?" John drawled sarcastically.

"They're all pressing 'til they're solved."

* * *

Back at the White Tower, Moriarty arrived at the security checkpoint. Security officers patrolled the area, forcing tourists through the metal detector. Jim strolled through, causing the detector to blare in alarm.

"Excuse me, sir," a guard told him. Moriarty walked backwards, chomping his gum as obnoxiously as he could manage. "Any metal objects– keys, mobile phones?" he inquired. Smiling apologetically, Jim pulled his phone out of his pocket and placed it in the tray.

The guard allowed him to pass through, and this time the buzzer remained silent. He retrieved his phone and continued, entering the room.

In the center was a glass display case, presenting the Crown Jewels: a large, gold throne lined with velvet, with an ornate crown on the seat, and an orb with intricate designs resting on one arm while a beautiful scepter balanced on the other.

As more people ambled around him, he retrieved his headphones from his pocket and placed them in his ears. He stretched his neck from side to side, and turned his phone on, closing his eyes and allowing the overture to Rossini's "The Thieving Magpie" to encase him.

He spread his arms and slowly lowered them, as two security guards observed from the surveillance room. One of them them turned to the other as he got up and queried, "Fancy a cuppa, then, mate?"

His coworker replied, "Yeah, why not?" and returned to the screens.

* * *

_Bank of England, 11:00_

The bank director was seated at his computer as his assistant brought him a tray containing a cup, a saucer, and a milk jug. "Gilts at seven; Dutch telecoms in free-fall," he said in a monotone voice. "Thank you, Harvey."

Harvey placed the tray in front of the director, and quietly left.

* * *

_Pentonville Prison 11:00_

A meeting was starting in the prison's governor's office. He smacked an enormous file on his desk, barely missing his mug of tea. With the wardens huddled around the room, he jested, "What do you say: refuse them all parole and bring back the rope!"

After no one even so much as chuckled, he began the meeting.

* * *

At the White Tower again, Jim let his arms droop and snatched up his phone. Scrolling through his myriad of apps, he clicked on one with the icon of a crown; specifically, the crown he was standing in front of.

The moment he tapped it, an alarm went off in the surveillance room, and screens began to shut down. An automated voice directed visitors to the exit, as tourists slowly and reluctantly headed outside.

A security guard noticed that Moriarty did not depart, and he put his hand on Moriarty's shoulder, requesting him to leave.

Earphones still in, Jim twisted around, pulling something out of his pocket, and sprayed it in the guard's face, knocking him unconscious. In a movement of vanity, he took off his cap and smoothed back his hair.

At that moment, in the surveillance room, the guard had dropped his tea and began dialing a number, the spilled tea soaking into the carpet beneath him, forgotten entirely in the wake of this crisis.

* * *

At Scotland Yard, Donovan rushed into the Detective Inspector's office. "Sir, there's been a break-in."

"Not our division," he said, his voice muffled by the amount of pastries in his mouth.

"You'll want it," she assured him.

* * *

Back at the tower, Jim selected a second icon: a picture of a piggy bank bursting open.

* * *

The bank director stared in horror as his computer announced the opening of the bank's vault.

"The vault..." His voice faltered, as his tea began to spill onto his clothing.

* * *

Sirens blaze as Greg and Sally drove towards the site of the break-in. Her phone buzzed with a phone call.

"Hacked into the Tower of bloody London security?! How?!" Lestrade yelled in disbelief. "Tell them we're already on our way!"

"There's been another one; another break-in!" She remained silent' listening, as Lestrade glared at her.

"Bank of England!"

* * *

Jim, still chewing on his gum, entrancingly wrote letters backwards on the glass of the case, drawing a smiley face on the "O". Then, lifting his phone for the third time, presses the final app: a prisoner with the bars being raised.

* * *

The prison's governor just began to drink his tea when a warder burst into his room. "Sir, security's down, sir! It's failing!"

He knocked his jug down as he stood up immediately.

* * *

The detectives were nearing the tower as Donovan get's another phone call. "What is it now?"Lestrade sighed in exasperation.

"Pentonville Prison!" she shouted.

"Oh, no!" He didn't know how many men he had personally filled that prison with...

* * *

Moriarty, calm as ever, removed his gum and placed it just above the words. He then took a tiny diamond from a box and carefully placed it in the gum, ecstatically grinning. He took off his jacket to reveal a white t-shirt, and raised his arms, in an absurdly feminine pose.

Police sirens rang in the background, yet he didn't care in the slightest.

He slipped on a pair of black, leather gloves and picked the fire extinguisher.

* * *

Police sprinted into the building, fearful of the criminal they would discover in there, who was somehow robbing three places at the exact same time.

* * *

He dramatically dashed up to the case, flamboyantly stopping and twirling, absolutely enjoying every single second. Finally, he took up the extinguisher and rammed it into the exact spot where he placed the diamond earlier.

* * *

The police force hurried through the metal detector, which continuously went off, unnoticed by them.

* * *

He repeatedly hit the pane until it shattered in to millions of shards, grinning manically as ever, certainly on his worst behavior.

* * *

Finally, Sally and Greg arrived at the scene, jumping out of the car and running up to the door breathlessly.

They arrived the room, where Moriarty greeted them.

He was adorned in the robes that were once laced on the seat, and he settled himself on the plush seat, the orb and scepter in hand. He looked, and felt, like a king among fools.

"No rush," he smirked.

* * *

At 221b, Sherlock's phone began to trill once again, interrupting John's reading.

"I'll get it, shall I?" he said, irritably, and walked towards the table. Sherlock, meanwhile, still remained focused on the microscope.

John picked the phone up and his face paled with shock. He slowly walked towards Sherlock, phone in hand.

"Here," he said, urgency lacing his tone.

Sherlock didn't even glance up for a millisecond. "Not now, I'm busy," he groaned irascibly.

"Sherlock-"

"_Not now._"

John inhaled deeply, mustering all his patience as he anxiously murmured, "He's back."

No further explanation was needed. Sherlock immediately grabbed the phone and read the message.

It read:

_Come and play.  
Tower Hill.  
Jim Moriarty x._

Sherlock's eyes sharpened, as he sunk into his chair, expecting the worse, now that Moriarty was back.

His nemesis. Rival. Archenemy.

And the only person like him.

* * *

**Chapter one is done. Please review. I really would appreciate it. Ha.**

**My personal thoughts on this chapter, was that it was all based on the relationship between John and Sherlock, and how they're so alike, and yet different. They are a perfect match of bros. This was a big theme in the episode, how they were so close, John would never believe Sherlock was a fraud. It was also that Sherlock finally found something he valued more than his reputation: his friends. Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, and John all were worth something to him. He could never let them die, even if it meant ending his life. Sherlock became humanized, because of John.**

**It was also about how much fear Moriarty could bring. He made everyone believe in something that didn't exist, and people killed for it. He is a criminal mastermind, no matter how much slash you write about him. He's evil. Nothing's going to change that. **

**Chapter Two will be here in about a week or so. Thank you.**


	2. The Verdict

As he was shoved into a police car, Jim Moriarty suspiciously smiled toward Greg Lestrade, who was exiting the tower and staring at the phone in the convict's hand.

It sent chills down his spine, and he knew who Moriarty had been texting. For him, it had been obvious. The incident had occurred less than a year ago, when Moriarty had held various people hostage, with bombs strapped to them in multiple crowded locations. The only way to save them had been to uncover crimes, which were all tied to Moriarty himself.

In the end, John Watson had been captured, and Sherlock Holmes had been personally called out to rescue him. John Watson had been safely recovered, but at the unfortunate cost of losing Moriarty. Now, he was captured. Lestrade should have been celebrating, but instead he was filled with anxiety. It was too easy. What were his real intentions?

Lestrade kept his thoughts to himself, however, even when the two partners had arrived at the scene after being "graciously" invited. Lestrade led them to the security room, and they watched as Moriarty pressed his gum and a tiny object up to the glass case.

"That glass is tougher than anything," he commented, bewildered.

"Not tougher than crystallized carbon," Sherlock explained, somewhat defogging Lestrade's mind. "He used a diamond."

For a second, Lestrade was amazed, then he inwardly smiled. _Same Sherlock_, he thought.

He adjusted the footage, showing the crime from a whole new angle. He reversed the shot, and they watched as the glass reassembled itself, and Moriarty slowly backed away. All of a sudden, the illegible writing became clear; Moriarty had written it backwards so the police would be sure not to miss it.

It read:

GET SHERLOCK

John turned to his friend, hoping to see a reaction, but all he saw were his cold, calculating eyes analyzing the written taunt.

* * *

As the case developed, it became apparent that Sherlock was to testify against Moriarty in court, much to both of their dismay.

Before they had time to respond, the day of the trial arrived. As John adjusted his tie, Sherlock buttoned up his jacket and watched his partner from the mirror, suddenly thankful that he had John as his right-hand man.

Finally, both dressed for the occasion, Sherlock led the way downstairs; they both stopped in front of the door, a sense of nostalgia and disbelief overcoming them.

"Ready?" asked John.

_No._ "Yes," replied Sherlock.

_Me neither_, thought John, as he braced himself and opened the door.

It almost seemed as though the world had exploded. Police officers were engaged in a futile attempt to keep the press away from the duo, as the innumerable paparazzi rapidly took photos of them, shouting out illegible questions.

The officers assisted them into the police car and soon sped off, away from 221B, with its sirens blaring in the air.

* * *

At the prison where Jim was held, Old Bailey, he wore a plain grey suit, matching tie and handkerchief. The guards, after checking his shackles, decided they were adequate, and gave the men he was cuffed to permission to move forward.

None of them noticed the eerie smile on the consulting criminal's face.

* * *

As the car turned on Trafalgar Square, John decided to go over a few rules of thumb with Sherlock.

"Remember-" he began, but Sherlock interrupted...as usual.

"Yes."

He tried again, insistent. "Remember-"

"Yes."

He looked away in frustration, then tried one last time. "Remember what they told you: don't try to be clever-"

"No."

John let out a small sigh. "And please, just keep it simple and brief."

"God forbid the star witness at the trial should come across as intelligent," Sherlock scoffed scornfully, though it wasn't really directed at John.

"Intelligence, fine" John agreed. "let's give 'smart-arse' a wide berth."

There was a moment of silence, in which John had a sneaking suspicion that Sherlock was going to begin laughing. Instead, he said, "I'll just be myself."

"Are you even listening to me?!"

* * *

At Old Bailey, Jim and his "companions" marched up the stairs, into the courtroom.

Outside, multiple reporters were giving news updates to their respective TV stations, informing them of Sherlock's appearance.

As Jim reached his assigned dock, a female officer came to check his restraints once more.

As she did, Moriarty, in a half-seductive, half-intimidating way, whispered in her ear, "Would you mind slipping your hand into my pocket?"

She turned to the other officer with a small hint of fear apparent on her face, but the officer nodded.

Uncomfortably, she reached her hand into the pocket and pulled out a piece of gum. He breathed heavily in her face, sticking his tongue out, as she placed the piece there. He drew it back, showing off his trademark smile.

"Thanks."

The officer didn't reply, not wanting to admit how much she was frightened of or attracted to him.

* * *

Sherlock was washing his hands at that precise moment, alone in the restroom; John had went on ahead to take his seat in the audience. An announcement rang, informing everyone a part of the Moriarty trial to head towards the courtroom. He was just about to do so when he was met with the sight of an unfortunate-looking young woman.

She wore his iconic deerstalker and a "I Heart Sherlock" pin, with an awestruck expression on her face. Her handbag fell to the floor. "You're him," she said, in wistful tone.

"Wrong toilet," was his first response.

"I'm a big fan," she continued, in the same voice, vexing Sherlock.

"Evidently."

"I read your cases; follow them all." She stepped closer to him, gazing deeply into his eyes, which he ignored. "Sign my shirt, would you?"

Peeling back her jacket, she revealed a low-cut shirt, and tried to push the cleavage towards him, holding a pen in her hand.

_Not much shirt to sign_, he inwardly joked as he assessed the situation. Soon, he spoke. "There are two types of fans."

"Oh?" She was confused.

"'Catch me before I kill again'– Type A..."

She nodded. "Uh-huh. What's Type B?"

"'Your bedroom's just a taxi ride away.'"

_And then there's Type C, tolerating my habits and nature while being on good terms with me, like John._

The fan girl grinned maniacally, eyes locked on his. "Guess which one I am."

Sherlock gave her a once-over and made a quick deduction, noticing the ink on her arms, the pressure marks, and her pocket.

"Neither," he responded.

She looked taken aback. "R-really?"

"No. You're not a fan at all." He glanced at the deep indentation just below her wrist.

"Those marks on your forearm: edge of a desk. You've been typing in a hurry, probably. Pressure on, facing a deadline."

Shamefully looking away, she inquired, "That all?"

It was not! He continued, "And there's a smudge of ink on your wrist; and a bulge in your left jacket pocket."

Simultaneously, they looked at her pocket, which contained a recorder, flashing the red signal of recording. "Bit of a giveaway," the reporter admitted, in her normal voice.

"The smudge is deliberate, to see if I'm as good as they say I am," he noticed, lifting her hand and sniffing the ink. "Hmm. Oil-based; used in newspaper print, but drawn on with an index finger; your finger."

She didn't speak, but her astonishment was apparent.

"Journalist," he concluded. "Unlikely you'd get your hands dirty at the press. You put that there to test me."

"Wow, I'm liking you!" she exclaimed delightedly.

Sherlock, however, disagreed. "You mean I'd make a great feature: 'Sherlock Holmes – the man beneath the hat'."

In a gesture of defeat, she removed her hat. "Kitty Riley, pleased to meet you," she introduced herself and offered her hand.

"No," he said, thoroughly irritated. He despised these types of journalists. "I'm just saving you the trouble of asking. No, I won't give you an interview; no, I don't want the money." Pushing past her, he headed for the door, until she called out, "You and John Watson – just platonic? Can I put you down for a 'no' there, as well?"

He halted mid-step, letting her step in front of him to lean in close, unfazed or unaware of the death stare he was giving.

"There's all sorts of gossip in the press about you. Sooner or later you're gonna need someone on your side." She yanked out a small card from her pocket and inserted it into his. "Someone to set the record straight."

"And you think you're the girl for that job, do you?" he scoffed.

"I'm smart, and you can trust me, totally," she tried to assure him, but the fuse had been lit.

"Smart, okay," he growled, "investigative journalist. Good. Well, look at me and tell me what you see."

He swayed around her, admiring the overwhelmed nervousness on her eyes. To Sherlock, she was just another selfish bastard to break. "If you're that skillful, you don't need an interview. You can just read what you need."

After she didn't respond, he sneered, "No?" He feigned surprise. "Okay, my turn," he said, pacing around her. His brain and mouth went on rapid fire.

"I look at you and I see someone who's still waiting for their first big scoop so that their editor will notice them. You're wearing an expensive skirt but it's been re-hemmed twice; only posh skirt you've got. And your nails: you can't afford to do them that often. I see someone who's hungry. I don't see smart, and I definitely don't see trustworthy, but I'll give you a quote if you like – three little words."

Snatching the Dictaphone from her, he moved it close to his mouth, as she hopefully moved forward in a desperate and absolutely hopeless attempt.

"_You. Repel. Me._"

With that, he left the room, not once looking back.

* * *

The time arrived for Sherlock to give his statement to the court. John was just praying the detective didn't start being an annoying git, but he knew Sherlock too well, and that was exactly what he was going to decide to do.

As serious as the situation was, John smiled.

As Sherlock made his way to the box, he saw Jim's face, menacingly smiling, in the box opposite of him.

The prosecuting barrister began to ask questions. "A 'consulting criminal'?" he asked, unamused.

"Yes."

"Your words. Can you expand on that answer?"

Sherlock cleared his throat. "James Moriarty is for hire."

"A tradesman?" the prosecutor asked.

"Yes."

"But not the sort who'd fix your heating." The barrister was trying to get a positive response from the audience. Sherlock slightly sniggered. He could do it without trying.

"No, the sort who'd plant a bomb or stage an assassination, but I'm sure he'd make a pretty decent job of your boiler," he joked.

The court let out an amused chuckle. Even the prosecutor could not hide her smile.

He looked up at John, who had a worried expression. _Don't fret, John._

The barrister began again. "Would you describe him as-"

"Leading," he interrupted, startling her.

"What?"

He sighed. _I thought lawyers had actually studied law._

"Can't do that. You're leading the witness." He glanced at the defending side. "He'll object and the judge will uphold."

The judge let out a sigh, as exasperated as he was. "Mr. Holmes!"

"Ask me how!" he demanded the barrister. "How would I describe him? What opinion have I formed of him? Do they not teach you this?"

"Mr. Holmes, we're fine without your help," the judge attempted to reassure him, but it wouldn't be that easy.

Kitty arrived at the public gallery, unknowing that John was looking at her and hadn't formed any conclusions. Meanwhile, the prosecution took Sherlock's advice and asked him, "How would you describe this man; his character?"

Sherlock almost made the mistake of laughing. He replaced his urge to chortle with cold, hard facts. "First mistake." He momentarily glanced at Moriarty. "James Moriarty isn't a man at all – he's a spider; a spider at the center of a web – a criminal web with a thousand threads and he knows precisely how each and every single one of them dances."

As much as he wished they did, John saw that nobody at all missed the nod Jim made after Sherlock's description. Aware of that same fact, the prosecutor cleared her throat in an awkward manner.

"And how long-"

Sherlock closed his eyes, thoroughly annoyed. "No, no, don't- don't do that. That's really not a good question."

The judge was reaching his last nerve. "_Mister Holmes!_"

Sherlock ignored him. "How long have I known him? Not really your best line of inquiry. We met twice, five minutes in total. I pulled a gun; he tried to blow me up. I felt we had a special something," he added sarcastically.

Jim took particular notice of this, and raised his brows.

"Miss Sorrel," the judge roared, addressing the prosecutor, "are you seriously claiming this man is an expert, after knowing the accused for just five minutes?"

"Two minutes would have made me an expert. Five was ample," Sherlock corrected, somewhat arrogantly.

"Mr. Holmes, that's a matter for the jury."

"Oh, really?" the detective scoffed, raising his eyebrow and turning to the jury box.

John raised his hands to his head and all but said, _Shit_. By that time, Sherlock had deduced all the information he could and repeated it.

"One librarian; two teachers; two high-pressured jobs, probably the city."

He glared at the woman in the front left row, writing information down. He continued, "The foreman's a medical secretary, trained abroad judging by her shorthand."

"Mr. Holmes!" the judge yelled once more.

He wasn't done yet. "Seven are married and two are having an affair – with each other, it would seem! Oh, and they've just had tea and biscuits." He faced the judge, and ended his analysis, by saying, "Would you like to know who ate the wafer?"

The judge looked as though he would personally strangle the witness. "Mr. Holmes. You've been called here to answer Miss Sorrel's questions, not to give us a display of your intellectual prowess."

The sociopath took a deep breath, in an attempt to calm himself, but he could not help smiling He turned to John, who was stone faced, trying not to catch his eyes, for he knew Sherlock would know he was inwardly pleased with him.

"Keep your answers brief and to the point. Anything else will be treated as contempt," he warned. "Do you think you could survive for just a few minutes without showing off?"

Sherlock knew he should have kept his mouth shut, but couldn't resist the temptation.

* * *

A prison guard escorted Sherlock to a cell underneath the courtrooms and slammed his door shut. Two other men escorted Moriarty into the adjacent cell.

It had been a few months since the men were this close to each other, and it was only the fact that he knew Moriarty was guilty that kept him from attacking him. Jim had a murderous expression as well.

* * *

Thankfully, John arrived a few moments later, and was able to release Sherlock from his confinement. But he was not happy.

"What did I say? I said, 'Don't get clever,'" he groaned as Sherlock signed for his personal property.

"I can't just turn it on and off like a tap," he reasoned in response.

After grabbing the item bags, he turned to John. "Well?" he asked.

"Well what?"

Sherlock sighed. "You were there for the whole thing, up in the gallery, start to finish."

At that moment, John realized he was talking about Moriarty.

"Like you said it would be; he sat on his backside, never even stirred," he reported.

"Moriarty's not mounting any defense," said Sherlock.

One question was left in their minds: Why?

When they reached the flat, Sherlock began to deduce once again, as John spoke. "Bank of England, Tower of London, Pentonville. Three of the most secure places in the country and six weeks ago Moriarty breaks in, no one knows how or why."

He relaxed into his armchair as Sherlock rapidly paced.

"All we know is-"

"-he ended up in custody," Sherlock finished for him.

He stopped and turn to John, who sighed unfortunately. "Don't do that," he pleaded.

"Do what?" Sherlock responded, genuinely confused.

"The look."

"Look?"

"You're doing it again."

"Well, I can't see it, can I?"

John pointed to the mirror. As Sherlock examined it, he thought about how even though he was a genius, he was just too thick sometimes.

"It's my face," Sherlock responded.

"Yes, and it's doing a 'thing'. You're doing a 'we both know what's really going on here' face."

"Well, we do." _Don't we?_

"No. I don't, which is why I find The Face so annoying."

It was the first time Sherlock realized that John didn't work the same way as he did. John was an ordinarily extraordinary person, but he was no Sherlock. He just never thought of him that way.

"If Moriarty wanted the Jewels, he'd have them," he tried to explain. "If he wanted those prisoners free, they'd be out on the streets. The only reason he's still in a prison cell right now is because he chose to be there." He started pacing once more, mumbling, "Somehow this is part of his scheme."

* * *

The next day of the trial, the judge spoke to the defending barrister. "Mr. Crayhill, can we have your first witness?"

He rose to his feet, extremely nervous. "Your Honour, we're not calling any witnesses."

The gasps of the audience are too apparent. John, watching the trial on Sherlock's behalf, was bewildered.

As was the judge. "I don't follow. You've entered a plea of 'Not Guilty'."

"Nevertheless," the lawyer responded, "my client is offering no evidence. The defense rests." He did so, looking possibly more nervous than before.

Jim turned around, and caught John's eye, innocently shrugging. John made a mental note to report the ruse to his friend.

* * *

At the flat, Sherlock, dressed in his favorite blue dressing gown, was sprawled on the sofa, seriously pondering the trial, assuming what could be going on and fully aware he was completely correct. He began to speak the judge's summing-up speech, as the judge followed suit.

They spoke at the sane time. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury. James Moriarty stands accused of several counts of attempted burglary, crimes which – if he's found guilty – will elicit a very long custodial sentence; and yet his legal team has chosen to offer no evidence whatsoever to support their plea. I find myself in the unusual position of recommending a verdict wholeheartedly. You must find him guilty."

At 221B, Sherlock whispered the verdict like a prayer: "Guilty."

The judge repeated his last line: "You must find him guilty."

* * *

The court had adjourned, and John waited for the recess to end outside the room on a bench. Suddenly, the Clerk of the Court rushed by him, saying, "They're coming back."

John checked his watch, surprised. "They've only been gone eight minutes."

"Surprised it took them that long, to be honest," the Clerk admitted. "There's a queue for the loo."

After he reentered the courtroom, John took a moment, cherishing the feeling that the man who killed so many, and had hurt both him and Sherlock would soon go to prison. He went inside.

"Have you reached a verdict on which you all agree?" the Clerk asked.

The woman gave him a small nod and a sorrowful expression. He knew the answer would be bad. They all subconsciously did.

And it was horrid.

* * *

**And here's where it gets exciting. As you may have noticed in the summary, this fic's official paring is now Johnlock. It was unintentional, but ended up panning out that way.**

**My thoughts about this part of the episode, was that it was just building up to the climax that Moriarty was going to be released, and there was some foreshadowing involved, especially with Kitty. God, she was so hate-able.**

**Anyway, the more people that review, the faster the updates, so please do!**


	3. A Talk or Two

**Thank you for reading and reviewing.**

**I know this is almost a novelization of the episode, but things will soon differ. Just bear with me. Special thanks to my beta for this particular chapter: zealousfreak27 :D, and to my other ones, Do A Barrel Roll.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own any dialogue or characters. Just the add-ons.**

* * *

At 221b, Sherlock's eyes fluttered open at the sound of his phone ringing. He instantly picked it up, to hear the voice of John, who he could perfectly imagine walking along the pavement outside the courthouse.

"_Not Guilty_," he complained to his friend. "_They found him Not Guilty. No defense, and Moriarty walked freely._"

Sherlock lowered the phone, as John continued. "_Sherlock, are you listening? He's out. You- you _know _he'll be coming after you. Sher-_"

The detective turned the phone off, and quickly got off the sofa and went into the kitchen. He switched the kettle on, and made a small tray consisting of a jug of milk, a sugar bowl, a teapot, and two cups of tea, complete with saucers and teaspoons. Water in the kettle boiled as Sherlock changed from his dressing robe into a jacket, made the tea, and placed it on the only dining table in the living room

He grabbed his violin, and turned toward the window, to play "_Bach's Sonata No. 1_"in G minor. At that moment, he faintly heard the door being unlocked and opened. Though he remained expressionless, he regarded the whole scenario with caution, and slight amusement.

Jim Moriarty slowly began to walk up the stairs, completely aware that Sherlock was expecting him. He stepped on a stair, and its creaking echoed, all the way of the stairs. Both men paused momentarily, until Sherlock resumed playing, and Moriarty walked on ahead.

He played, right up to the moment when he heard the door creak open, but did not turn around. Instead, he spoke to him, saying, "Most people knock," then shrugged sarcastically, "But then you're not most people."

Using his bow, he gestured towards the table, over his shoulder. "Kettle's just boiled."

Walking towards the table, the "ex"-convict picked up an apple, and began to toss it from hand to hand. "Johann Sebastian would be appalled." He looked around at the two seats. "May I?"

At this point, Sherlock faced him, causing an unnerving aura to fill the room. "Please," he pointed to John's chair, sing the bow once again. Defiantly, Jim sat in his chair, noticing the slightly disgruntled look on Sherlock's face.

As Sherlock placed his violin down, and poured the tea, Jim pulled a penknife out of his pocket, and cut into the apple, continuing the conversation. "You know when he was on his death bed, Bach, he heard his son at the piano playing one of his pieces. The boy stopped before he got to the end-"

"-and the dying man jumped out of his bed, ran straight to the piano and finished it."

Jim let out a slight chuckle. "Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody."

"Neither can you," he snapped in response. "That's why you've come."

"But be honest: you're just a tiny bit pleased."

"What, with the verdict?" He picked up a cup, added a dash of milk, and handed the cup to his rival, who looked slightly pleased and stood straighter.

"With me," he responded flirtatiously. "Back on the streets." He gazed into Sherlock's eyes, who had a sudden image of John, staring at him like that, in a less menacing and more meaningful way. "Every fairytale needs a good old-fashioned villain," he grinned.

Sherlock turned away, to make his own cup of tea. Moriarty took his silence as invitation to continue.

"You need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I – except you're boring." Disappointingly, he shook his head. "You're on the side of the angels."

He paused to sip his drink, as Sherlock stirred his own, and remarked, "Got to the jury, of course."

Jim was pleased, smiling manically. "I got into the Tower of London; you think I can't worm my way into twelve hotel rooms?"

"Cable network," stated the detective, as he imagined how the foreman would turn on her screen at her hotel room, to see the images if the people she loved, and a treat, possibly, "IF YOU WANT YOUR BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN TO STAY BEAUTIFUL THEN FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS."

"Every hotel bedroom has a personalized TV screen. And every person has their pressure point; someone that they want to protect from harm," said Moriarty. "Easy-peasy." He took another sip.

Sherlock knew who his would be, though he didn't expand on the thought at that time. He sat down in John's chair, and drank his tea.

"So how are you going to do it?" asked Sherlock, blowing on his tea. "Burn me?"

"Oh, that's the problem – the final problem," he whispered. "Have you worked out what it is yet?"

The sociopath silently glared at the psychopath, unresponsive to his question.

"What's the final problem?" the visitor repeated, smiling. "I did tell you, but did you listen?" He took a final sip, and placed the cup on the saucer, and his hand on his knee, idly drumming, as Sherlock memorized the movement.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?" the criminal said.

As he put the cup down, Sherlock finally responded, saying, "I dunno."

"Oh, that's clever; that's very clever; awfully clever," Jim chuckled, as Sherlock smiled humorously, oddly enjoying the atmosphere.

"Speaking of clever, have you told your little friends yet?" Jim asked.

"Told them what?" he responded, knowing the answer.

"Why I broke into all those places and never took anything."

"No."

"But you understand?"

"Obviously."

"Off you go, then." He cut a piece off the apple and used the knife to place it into his mouth, while Sherlock said, "You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"No; I want you to prove that you know it." It was a challenge, and he knew the man could not resist.

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to," he explained.

"Good," the mastermind nodded.

"You'll never need to take anything ever again."

"Very good. Because ...?"

"Because nothing- nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

Jim smiled. "I can open any door anywhere with a few tiny lines of computer code. No such thing as a private bank account now – they're all mine. No such thing as secrecy – I own secrecy. Nuclear codes – I could blow up NATO in alphabetical order. In a world of locked rooms, the man with the key is king; and honey, you should see me in a crown." He looked like a child with a new toy, seductively showing it off to Sherlock.

"You were advertising all the way through the trial. You were showing the world what you can do," Sherlock deduced.

"And you were helping. Big client list: rogue governments, intelligence communities... terrorist cells. They all want me," Moriarty announced as he took another apple piece and ate it. "Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"If you could break any bank, what do you care about the highest bidder?" Sherlock questioned.

Moriarty's smile increased. "I don't. I just like to watch them all competing. 'Daddy loves me the best!'" he mocked. "Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

At the last statement, Sherlock's fist curled up in a ball. _Not John._

"Why are you doing all of this?" he asked.

Moriarty was still on the previous topic. "It'd be so funny."

Sherlock's nails dug into his palms. "You don't want money or power – not really."

Unresponsive, Jim poked the knife into the apple.

He asked a final question. "What is it all for?"

The consulting criminal leaned inward, and spoke softly, "I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem." He lowered his head slightly. "It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall." He started at a high-pitched whistle, and slowly lowered it, matching the speed of his head turning to the ground. "But don't be scared. Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination." His gaze reached the floor, and a thudding sound was heard.

He raised his gaze, to find Sherlock, teeth slightly bared, buttoning his jacket. "Never liked riddles," he admitted.

Moriarty stood as well, and their eyes locked, engaged in a silent battle. "Learn to. Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I. Owe. You." Walking out of the room, he let the cryptic message hanging in the air.

The remaining man noticed that he had left the apple, and the penknife he stuck into it. Turning it over, three letters were legible: I O U.

Sherlock twitched his mouth into an unnatural smile.

* * *

_Two Months Later_

John Watson hated plenty of things: criminals, liars, Moriarty (who happened to be both), newspaper journalists, etc.

On the top of his list was ATM machines.**  
**

He tapped in his pin, after putting in his card, and waited.

A message beeped onscreen:

_There is a problem with your card. Please wait._

He groaned, and waited for the machine to announce his feeble amount of money, when greeted with a new message.

_Thank you for your patience._

_John_

He turned around, and saw a large, black car pull up to the curb. Sighing in exasperation (a common thing for him, now), and entered the vehicle, adding another thing to his long list of inconveniences: the British Government.

The car dropped him off at a location calling itself _The Diogenes Club_. He entered into what looked like a large drawing room, with a large, unlit fireplace, and many old men in armchairs, reading the paper, and taking no notice of John.

He stepped up to the one closest to the ornate fireplace and asked, "Er, excuse me. Um, I'm looking for Mycroft Holmes."

The man didn't look up, but slightly shuddered.

John continued speaking, taking no notice of the other men in the room, who had turned to face in his direction. "Would you happen to know if he's around at all?"

No one responded. "Can you not hear me?"

The old man turned to him, breathing heavily, and his face a bright shade of red.

"Yes, alright," John replied, giving up on the man, and turning to the three others, all quickly looking the other way. "Anyone? Anyone at all know where Mycroft Holmes is? I've been asked to meet him here."

_Well, more like forced, but..._he thought, as the old man used his walking stick to push a small red button on the wall, signaling bells in the distance.

John looked around, appalled, and raised his voice in annoyance. "No takers? Right. Am I invisible? Can you actually see me?"

At that moment, two men walked into the room, wearing dress suits, and covers in their shoes. As the men waved at John frantically, he greeted them.

"Ah, thanks, gents. I've been asked to meet Mycroft Holm-"

The men walked up to John, grabbed his arms firmly, and briskly walked out of the room. He began protesting, but a hand appeared over his mouth, and the muffled yells ceased.

* * *

John, after being "escorted" away, found himself watching the motions that Mycroft made, while pouring himself a drink.

"Tradition, John," he said. "Our traditions define us."

"So total silence is traditional, is it?" John asked. "You can't even say, 'Pass the sugar.'"

"Three-quarters of the diplomatic service and half the government front bench all sharing one tea trolley. It's for the best, believe me." He smiled at his guest, but it slowly diminished as he stepped closer, and sat in the armchair opposite John, with only a small table and a file separating them. "They don't want a repeat of 1972. But we can talk in here."

John picked up a copy of the scandalous newspaper, 'The Sun', and brandished it in Mycroft's face. "You read this stuff?"

"Caught my eye. Saturday: they're doing a big exposé."

The former captain held back a chortle, examining the small advertisement at the bottom, with the headline: _SHERLOCK: THE SHOCKING TRUTH._ The subtitle read: _Close Friend Richard Brook Tells All._

"I'd love to know where she got her information," said John, mentioning the author of the article in question, Kitty Riley.

"Someone called Brook. Recognize the name?" Mycroft asked, though he knew the answer.

He shook his head. "School friend, maybe?" This caused Mycroft to chuckle, annoying John.

"Of Sherlock's?" the eldest Holmes scoffed, asking his head. "But that's not why I asked you here." He grabbed from a side table, a few documents, and handed them to John.

"Who's that?" he asked, examining the picture.

"Don't know him?"

"No."

"Never seen his face before?"

John opened his mouth, but the British government cut him off. "He's taken a flat in Baker Street, two doors down from you."

"Hmm! I was thinking of doing a drinks thing for the neighbors," he said, smiling sarcastically, while Mycroft glared at him, stone faced.

"Not sure you'll want to." He gestured to the file. "Sulejmani. Albanian hit squad. Expertly-trained killer living less than twenty feet from your front door."

"It's a great location. Jubilee line's handy."

"John-"

What's this got to do with me?"

Ignoring the question, Mycroft handed him another file before being seated. "Dyachenko, Ludmila."

The doctor let out a long, tired groan whilst opening the file, then slightly frowned. "Um, actually, I think I have seen her."

"Russian killer. She's taken the flat opposite."

"Okay ... I'm sensing a pattern here," said John, his voice high-pitched.

"In fact, four top international assassins relocate to within spitting distance of two hundred and twenty-one B." He gave him the rest of the files. "Anything you care to share with me?"

"I'm moving?" he chuckled to an unamused Mycroft.

"It's not hard to guess the common denominator, is it?"

"You think this is Moriarty?"

"He promised Sherlock he'd come back."

"If this was Moriarty, we'd be dead already."

"If not Moriarty, then who?"

"Why don't you talk to Sherlock if you're so concerned about him?"

Mycroft looked away, suddenly intrigued by his glass of wine. That was enough to answer John's question.

"Oh God, don't tell me," he rolled his eyes.

"Too much history between us, John. Old scores; resentments."

"Nicked all his Smurfs? Broke his Action Man?" he jested, laughing at the hardened look the brother gave him, then settling down, and tossing the files aside. "Finished."

As he got up and turned around, Mycroft called after him. "We both know what's coming, John."

He stopped, clenching his fists in an attempt to control his anger. He was fearful of that day, the day of the fall, although he wasn't sure why.

"So," he said angrily to Mycroft, "you want me to watch out for your brother because he won't accept your help."

"If it's not too much trouble." The smile on his face slowly vanished, replaced with a look of solemnity. John held his gaze, and walked to the door. Then, with a sense of finality, turned back, to see the man, and walked out.

* * *

**OK, so, isn't this crazy?**

**Well, it's all mostly just to show the tensions between Moriarty and Sherlock, as well as how John and Mycroft differ from the ways they protect Sherlock: John is more upfront and personal, and Mycroft is behind-the-scenes.**

**Please review, and, hopefully, that'll inspire the next chapter to come at a faster rate!**


	4. A Kidnapping

Once John got back to 221B, he became extremely nervous. He looked around, fearful that any person around him could be a trained assassin prepared to kill him and Sherlock.

His anxiety increased, for when he reached the flat the door was wide open, with a small parcel on the doorstep. Examining it, he could only find a large, old-fashioned wax seal. He slid his finger under the seal, and the envelope popped open, allowing brown debris to fall out.

In a futile attempt to catch the pieces, a large, muscular, tattooed man bumped into John.

"'Scuse, mate."

The only noise John could manage was, "Oh."

He watched as he carried a large stepladder and walked down the hall. A chilling feeling crawled up John's spine as he trotted up to the flat, pocketing the mail. "Sherlock, something weird-"

He stopped. DI Lestrade and Donovan were in the flat, and seemed to have had an unpleasant chat with Sherlock.

"What's going on?" John asked in general.

"Kidnapping," Sherlock responded, as he walked over to the laptop and started typing.

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S.," Lestrade began explaining.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?"

"Not him – his children, Max and Claudette, age seven and nine. They're at St Aldate's."

Donovan handed the doctor a picture of two young, smiling children. "Posh boarding place down in Surrey."

Due to the seriousness if the situation, John held back a chuckle. Only yesterday he had been reading Harry Potter with Sherlock, who had absolutely hated it. The memory cheered him up.

Meanwhile, Lestrade spoke to Sherlock. "The school broke up; all the other boarders went home – just a few kids remained, including those two."

"The kids have vanished," his assistant interrupted.

"The ambassador's asked for you personally." The inspector watched as Sherlock got up,and put his coat over his shoulder.

He was halfway out the door when Donovan made a snide comment: "The Reichenbach Hero."

That didn't faze him, and Greg followed him out. "Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity?" he joked.

As John allowed Sally to pass him, he had the strangest feeling he was being watched.

* * *

The group arrived at the boarding school: St. Aldate's. The car pulled up by the main entrance where there were already a few officers and a crying old woman, hindering the investigation by being unresponsive.

"Miss Mackenzie," Lestrade explained to Sherlock. "House Mistress. Go easy." He gave Sherlock a slight pat on the back and allowed him to confront the woman on his own, immediately regretting the choice.

Sherlock briskly approached her, whipped off the blanket covering her, and yelled in her face, "Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night. What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal? Now quickly, tell me!"

Gasping in fear, she told him, "All the doors and windows were properly bolted. No-one – not even me – went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

Sherlock's angry smirk transformed into a reassuring smile, surprising everyone in the vicinity. "I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly."

He stepped aside and ventured to the front door, notifying the other policemen that she would need to breathe through a bag as she burst into tears.

John and Lestrade didn't know whether to laugh or yell, so they settled for neither and followed Sherlock, who led them to the dormitories.

"Six grand a term, you'd expect them to keep the kids safe for you," commented John, trying to lighten the mood. "You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?"

The consulting detective examined the cupboard beside the bed, then bent down to look under it.

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in," said the DI as Sherlock got up from the floor, holding a lacrosse stick. Briefly using it as a metaphorical weapon, he frowned and allowed it to collapse onto the ground.

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in," Greg continued, watching Sherlock rush to the trunk by the window to open it. He peered at the contents; a brown envelope caught his eye. Picking it up, he noticed the large red seal, with nothing else marking it. Inside was a book, bearing the title, "Grimm Fairy Tales."

At that moment, it became clear to him who took the children. "Show me where the brother slept."

The room was messy, with a disorganized bookcase and a ruffled bed, facing the door, with a frosted windowpane, allowing little more than silhouettes to be viewed.

He looked towards the door, pointing to the bed, and started to deduce, moving rapidly around the room. "The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He'd recognize every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

"Okay, so ...?" replied a confused Lestrade.

"So someone approaches the door who he doesn't recognize - an intruder. Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." He rushed to the door outside, pulled it closer to him, and gestured his free hand to form the shape of a gun, demonstrating what the boy witnessed.

Sherlock walked back into the room. "What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?"

Walking around the bed, viewing the bedside shelves, he muttered, "This little boy; this particular little boy, who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

"He'd leave a sign?" suggested John.

Making a mental note of thanks to his flat mate, Sherlock began sniffing obnoxiously. Picking up a cricket bat, he thoroughly smelled it, became dissatisfied, and crouched to the floor. He reached under the bed and pulled out a small bottle of linseed oil. Looking up, he said the two words his friends never thought he would ever say: "Get Anderson."

* * *

Soon afterwards, the team had shut out all light from the room and corridors by shuttering the windows. In the bedroom, Sherlock shined a UV light to the wall beside the bed, revealing a cryptic plea of "HELP US".

"Linseed oil," Sherlock explained.

"Not much use. Doesn't lead us to the kidnapper," said a displeased Anderson.

"Brilliant, Anderson."

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot."

John held back his chuckle, and watched Sherlock point to the floor, where there were a few glowing footprints.

"The floor."

"He made a trail for us!" John gasped as they followed the steps, Sherlock in the lead.

"The boy was made to walk ahead of them," he deduced, walking into the hallway.

"On, what, tiptoe?"

"Indicates anxiety; a gun held to his head," he said, eyes bared at the footprints, made more visible with the assistance of Anderson's and John's ultraviolet lights. "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."

After a few more yards, the glowing marks disappeared.

"That's the end of it. We don't know where they went from here," said Anderson, a hint of bitterness in his voice. "Tells us nothing after all."

Sherlock stared at Anderson, then said, "You're right, Anderson – nothing." He took a breath to admire the look on Anderson's face before rapid-firing facts, "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

He bent down and plucked the shade off of a window as Anderson sauntered away. Putting a light on the windowsill, he took out his small package of tools and a small plastic dish, sniggering excitedly.

John knelt down as well, a stern expression plastered on his face. "Having fun?"

"Starting to."

"Maybe don't do the smiling."

Sherlock looked at John, uncharacteristically confused.

"Kidnapped children?" the doctor reminded him.

Sherlock chuckled. "Thank you, John. People will stop believing I'm a freak if I stop getting excited by an investigation. Bravo."

John let out an exasperated sigh- _I've been doing that a lot_- and watched Sherlock take glowing pieces off the ground, using tweezers to pick up the pieces and lace them in the Petri dish.

* * *

After getting into a cab to continue their personal investigation, John asked Sherlock a question that had been bothering him: "But how did he get past the CCTV? If all the doors were locked-"

"He walked in when they weren't locked," Sherlock said, as if that explained the whole problem.

"But a stranger can't just walk into a school like that."

"Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What's one more stranger among that lot?"

After a few seconds of silence he concluded by saying, "He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide."

() 0 ()

Molly sighed and put on her jacket, walking to the fire exit after her shift. Her day had been filled with sadness and disappointments; what she needed to do was to get out of the hospital, and hang out with her new acquaintance. But before she could leave, John and Sherlock burst through the doors before her, pushing her backwards.

"Molly!" cheered Sherlock unusually.

"Oh, hello. I'm just going out," she muttered, trying to get past him, but he grabbed her shoulders and guided her back the way she came. "No you're not."

"I've got a lunch date."

"Cancel it. You're having lunch with me." He reached into his coat pockets and pulled out two small bags of chips.

"What?" she protested, bemused.

"Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends – we'r trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

The two men walked up to the doors of the laboratory, until they noticed that Molly had stopped walking a few feet back.

In the awkward silence, John asked another question: "It's Moriarty?"

"Course it's Moriarty," scoffed Sherlock.

"Er," said Molly, attempting to clarify the situation. "Jim actually wasn't even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." He pulled out the bags again, and entered the other room, followed by his companion.

Molly sighed, and pulled out her phone, which already had a message waiting for her.

_Can't make our lunch date. Got a big case. -Greg_

Before she could reply, another message appeared.

_Oh, and Sherlock should be coming by. Just a heads up. Good luck._

She sighed again. _Too late._

* * *

Molly staggered into "Sherlock's" laboratory, carrying a large stack of books almost as tall as herself and dusting her white lab coat. The other men were engrossed in their work. Sherlock sat at the bench by the table, examining the microscope, while John worked at the other end, listening to Sherlock.

"Oil, John," said Sherlock, opening the dish and taking the contents out tentatively. "The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to Moriarty." He carefully dropped the evidence into a test tube, with a small amount of liquid at the bottom. The fluid fizzed as he gathered a minute amount and placed it onto a slide. "All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he's been up to."

Time passed, fast and slow, while the three of them worked. "I need that analysis," Sherlock demanded of Molly, while she put on latex gloves and used litmus paper on a new substance.

"Alkaline," she informed him, after the paper turned a bright shade of blue.

"Thank you, John."

"Molly."

"Yes."

Slightly displeased, though she had been expecting it, she turned away.

Sherlock, meanwhile, had found the first of the elements in the shoe.

_1. Chalk_

Taking another sample, he dissolved it, revealing another substance.

_2. Asphalt_

Dissolving a third sample equaled a third realization.

_3. Brick Dust_

Another sample was dissolving over a Bunsen burner.

_4. Vegetation_

Soon, he was left with one last mystery substance, which he examined under a microscope. Under his breath, he muttered the challenge Jim left for him: "I. Owe. You." Turning his head, he looked at the analyzed computer data, creating a mystery. "Glycerol molecule. What are you?"

He went back to the microscope, unaware of Molly typing into a laptop beside him, deep in thought.

"What did you mean, "I owe you"?" she asked, watching him lift his head from the scope, and watch as John walked across the lab, examining files. He felt something in his chest, but tried not to think of it.

She repeated the question. "You said, "I owe you". You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing. Mental note." He returned to the evidence.

"You're a bit like my dad. He's dead."

She closed her eyes in embarrassment, slightly blushing. "No, sorry."

"Molly, please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

Cringing, she inhaled deeply and tried again. "When he was ... dying, he was always cheerful; he was lovely – except when he thought no one could see. I saw him once. He looked sad."

"Molly...," Sherlock responded sternly.

"You look sad- when you think he can't see you." She gestured to John; she knew how he felt about him, even though he would deny it. But now that her feelings for him had diminished, she could see his emotions clearly.

He lifted his eyes to glance at John, still going through files, unaware they were talking about him, then turned to Molly.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "And don't just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you."

"You can see me," he stated.

"I don't count."

For the first time, he really looked at Molly, properly acknowledging her existence. He used to just see a small girl, who was infatuated with him. At that moment, he saw a young woman, strong, who did not love him, but genuinely cared for him. He didn't know what to say.

"What I'm trying to say," she continued, "is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She flinched, realizing what she said. "No, I just mean- I mean if there's anything you need-" Abashed, she shook her head. "It's fine."

She tried to walk away, but Sherlock stopped her, shaken by her speech. "What-what-what could I need from you?"

She faced him, shrugging. "Nothing. I dunno. You could probably say thank you, actually." She nodded anxiously, and Sherlock moved his mouth in an awkward gesture.

" ...Thank you." He quickly turned away, surprised by his own words.

Still embarrassed, she walked to the door, talking quietly. "I'm just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything? It's okay, I know you don't."

"Well, actually, maybe I'll-" he stammered, trying to be polite.

"I know you don't." She walked out, leaving him gazing at the door thoughtfully until returning to the matter at hand.

At the other side of the lab, John was examining a few pictures of the crime scene, attempting (and failing, so far) to deduce anything of value, until he saw a close-up picture of the wax seal on the envelope that had held the book in the girl's trunk.

"Sherlock," he called out. "This envelope that was in her trunk. There's another one."

He walked over to his jacket, pulling his own parcel out, while Sherlock responded, "What?"

"On our doorstep. Found it today... Yes, and look at that." He went around the bench, to Sherlock, with the items. "Look at that. Exactly the same seal."

The taller man reached into the bag, and pulled out the brown dust. "Breadcrumbs?"

"Uh-huh. It was there when I got back."

"A little trace of breadcrumbs; hardback copy of fairy tales." Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened, realizing the connection. "Two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That's 'Hansel and Gretel'. What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?" As soon as the words left his mouth, John realized his answer. _Oh, god._

"The sort that likes to boast; the sort that thinks it's all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me..." They both can imagine the words as he would say them:

"_Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain..._"

He glanced back into the microscope again, the answer becoming clear to him. Making another mental note to thank him, he said to John, "The fifth substance: it's part of the tale."

"What?"

_5. PGPR_

"The glycerol molecule... PGPR!"

"What?" John asked again, still confused.

"It's used in making chocolate!" He jumped up to his feet, John right behind him, both hoping he was correct.

* * *

At Scotland Yard after the famed duo arrived, Lestrade handed him a sheet of paper, as they headed into the main office.

"This fax arrived an hour ago," he explained, as Sherlock examined it. A handwritten note, written by the only criminal mastermind he knew:

_HURRY UP_

_THEY'RE DYING!_

Sherlock handed the note to John, while Greg continued speaking. "What have you got for us?"

"Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect." He pulled a note out of his pocket, giving it to the DI, who read it aloud.

"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation ... What the hell is this? Chocolate?"

"I think we're looking for a disused sweet factory," replied Sherlock, pacing around the desks and people, all viewing him intensely.

"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?"

"No. No-no-no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk; chalky clay – that's a far thinner band of geology." The man closed his eyes, and created a visual map of London, trying to pinpoint the exact location.

"Brick dust?" Lestrade asked, trying to help with the process.

"Building site. Bricks from the nineteen fifties."

"There's thousands of building sites in London," he sighed, rubbing his face in exasperation.

"I've got people out looking," he reassured him.

"So have I."

"Homeless network – faster than the police. Far more relaxed about taking bribes." He said the last statement purposefully, as to make Anderson, sitting a few feet away, groan in dismay.

As if on cue, Sherlock's phone buzzed- continuously, showing that the network had discovered something. He smugly smiled, looking at the way Greg stood, acknowledging that he needed him. Using the mental map, Sherlock cross-referenced the information, until a picture caught his eye.

He pulled it up and showed it to John: a few purple flowers.

"Rhododendron ponticum," he clarified. "It matches." He went back to the mental map, looking at all the places where that flower grew, and where there was also a disused factory: "Addlestone."

"What?" asked Lestrade.

"There's a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything." Without speaking, he and John simultaneously ran out the building.

Lestrade turned to his team, slightly embarrassed that they did not find the place, but said nothing about it.

"Right, come on," he commanded.

Sally Donovan hesitated, not trusting Sherlock's lead. She never even trusted him. But when Greg repeated himself, she swallowed her pride and followed.

* * *

Police cars crowded Addlestone, as all available officers, as well as consulting detectives and companies, rushed inside, hoping they were not too late.

The building was dark and murky, but the flashlights did wonders to increase visibility. Donovan ordered police around, saying things such as, "You, look over there. Look everywhere. Okay, spread out, please. Spread out."

Lestrade led another team, along with Sherlock and John into the opposite direction, directing his own men. "Look in there. Quietly. Quietly."

Deeper on the bowels of the factory, Sherlock discovered a strange sight: a candle, on a plate, surrounded by dozens of tiny wrappers. Touching the wick, the exclaimed, "This was alight moments ago. They're still here!"

As the people around him begin to search more furiously, he picked up a wrapper, muttering to himself. "Sweet wrappers. What's he been feeding you? Hansel and Gretel."

He sniffed it a few times, before using the tip of his younger to taste the paper. Grimacing at the taste, his pulse quickened at the sudden realization of what the taste actually was: "Mercury."

"What?" Lestrade asked, for the second time in less than 24 hours.

"The papers: they're painted with mercury."

The DI and doctor groaned.

"Lethal. The more of the stuff they ate..." muttered Sherlock.

"It was killing them," said John.

"But it's not enough to kill them on its own. Taken in large enough quantities, eventually it would kill them."

The force hastened their search, and Sherlock's thoughts turned darker, towards Moriarty. "He didn't need to be there for the execution. Murder by remote control. He could be a thousand miles away."

Somewhere nearby, Donovan searched around before finding a small hiding place, where what looked like two children sat, dirt and chocolate coating their skin. The girl looked at Sally, holding her brother, who seemed to be unconscious.

Sherlock continued speaking. "The hungrier they got, the more they ate ... the faster they died. Neat," he grinned.

John's hand clenched into the shape of a fist, trying to keep steady. "Sherlock."

Suddenly, Sally shouted, "Over here!"

Everyone in the building ran to her, to find the two missing children, being carried out, while she muttered comfortingly to the girl. "I've got you. Don't worry."

* * *

Back at the Yard, Sherlock paced around and John sat patiently, waiting for the police. Finally, Greg entered the room, escorted by Sally.

"Right, then. The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn...," she said sarcastically to Sherlock.

As they headed towards the room, Lestrade turned to the sociopath, advising him. "Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to-"

"-not be myself" he finished.

"Yeah. Might be helpful."

Sherlock turned to John, all but asking for help. Judging by the stare John gave him, he assumed that he should act like the calm, collected doctor himself. He obviously comforted him, so he assumed it would work. As a precautionary measure, he flattened his coat collar.

Inside the room sat Claudette, the diplomat's recently recovered daughter, shivering from shock and being stroked reassuringly by a female officer.

"Claudette, I-" started Sherlock, but he could get no further, for one look at him caused the girl to begin screaming blindly.

"No-no, I know it's been hard for you-" he tried again, but she kept screaming, pointing at him, and scrambling to get away.

"Claudette, listen to me-" But at that point, Greg grabbed Sherlock, and pulled him outside, telling him to get out.

They exited, and returned to another office, where Sherlock strolled directly to a window, barely viewing outside through the slants of the blinds, trying to think.

"Makes no sense," said John, trying to vouch for Sherlock.

"The kid's traumatized. Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper," guessed Lestrade.

"So what's she said?" he asked Donovan, the only person who had remained with the girl.

"Hasn't uttered another syllable."

"And the boy?"

"No, he's unconscious; still in intensive care," said the inspector.

As they spoke, none if them, save Sherlock, noticed the building opposite, or how all the lights had fluttered on simultaneously, revealing a message, spray painted yellow on three windows, strictly for Sherlock's eyes:

**I O U.**

His eyes narrowed, as the lights flickered off as suddenly as they turned on, while Greg began to address Sherlock. "Well, don't let it get to you. I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people."

When there was no response, he gestured to Sally and John. "Come on."

He and John left first, but, as Sherlock exited, Sally turned to him.

"Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It's really amazing."

"Thank you," he replied offhandedly.

"Unbelievable."

He hesitated, knowing very well that there was an ulterior motive to her compliments, but instead of confronting her, he walked out the door.

Outside, John awaited him, smiling sympathetically. He turned to the street, and tried hailing a cab.

Noticing Sherlock's thoughtful expression, he asked, "You okay?"

"Thinking."

John knew how inwardly shocked his flatmate was by the experience, and decided not to confront him further.

When the cab approached the curd, he told John, "This is my cab. You get the next one."

"Why?"

"You might talk."

As the cab drive away, John had half a mind to do something crazy and angry. But he was far too kind to Sherlock and allowed him to sulk alone, waiting for a new cab all by himself.

* * *

In a larger office, Donovan examined all the evidence and police photographs from the recently closed case, mentally going over all the events that happened, causing the children to be found by Sherlock.

Greg, noticing her behavior, entered the room. "Problem?"

She looked at him, then back at the evidence. Then, mustering all her swallowed pride, and suspicious about Sherlock throughout the years, opened her mouth.

* * *

**Woohoo! New chapter! Be glad this is long, since the next one may take quite a while before I can publish it. So, please review, and hopefully, I won't completely give up on this. Thank you for sticking with this story for so long!**


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